


In Your Heart

by KyeAbove



Series: The Reinforcement Of Agony AU [79]
Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: Attention Starvation, Emotional Manipulation, Kissing, M/M, Swearing, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-08
Updated: 2018-08-08
Packaged: 2019-06-23 16:05:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15609948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KyeAbove/pseuds/KyeAbove
Summary: Agony:HellThe Prophet had done absolutely nothing to deserve this.





	In Your Heart

**Author's Note:**

> This'll make the most sense if you've read The Ripped Pages of a Broken Mind, To Be Free, Haunt, and What You've Done in the series, since this story takes from those.

~Unknown~

* * *

 

The Prophet was listening to that tape again, since he had the downtime to spend time alone in the halls. The banjo music was pleasant enough, and he’d almost perfected the tune on his own banjo. He was even thinking of corrections and adaptations he’d make. The Prophet had taken to the song as if he’d written it, and it was being played by someone else. Still, the tape was more than banjo music. It had a voice too, familiar, but not.

Who was he? This deep, calming voice that made him feel safe? Who was the voice even directing his words to? Was it always meant for him, or someone else.

Nobody had said “I love you” to him in a long time, if ever, so he wanted to count this one.

He  rewound the tape once again, feeling like he was melting at the greeting. This voice felt like...like..

“It’s so odd hearing that man.”

The Prophet was no longer alone. It wasn’t his Lord, or that tall heathen he was ~~attracted~~ hateful towards. Someone new. The Prophet looked up, and no one was there.

“Boo!”

There was someone behind him though. The Prophet was prepared to attack, because Lord nor his favourite heathen…

The man clearly did not expect to get a dustpan to the face. The Prophet didn’t expect this ink man to force a laugh.

“You’ve always been quick to violence haven’t you?” The man was somewhat shorter than him, styled in way that gave his torment away immediately but left the Prophet confused by how taller the man was for his sort. He certainly looked better than the rest. _Much better._ “You haven’t changed, Sammy.”

“I’m not Sammy.” The Prophet said, “I’m...fuck this.” The Prophet stomped his boot down on the man’s own, causing him to  jump.

“Nasty pill, aren’t you?” The man hissed, kicking The Prophet’s legs out from under him. Eyeing his foot, the man collected the tape recorder. “You know who this is right? It’s-”

“I don’t know.”

Something in the man’s demeanor changed, and he picked The Prophet up by his shirt.  
  
“Do any of these names sound familiar? Jonatan? Mateo? London? Bradley? Adora? Rosa? Walter? Norman? Bette? Claude?” The Prophet didn’t know those, and the man rolled his eyes when he realized this. “Shorter versions and less then, since you’re still so dumb. Johnny? Matt? Lundie? Wally?” The man clicked his tongue. “Henry?”

The name clicked. So someone named Henry did exist. It certainly excited The Prophet. Had Henry ever said _“I love you”_ to him?

So The Prophet nodded.

“I do somewhat recall a Henry.”

It was of no relief. Something in the man darkened further.  
  
“Good. You remember a total of one of the people you were especially close to. _Amazing.”_ The last word was pure sarcasm. “Don’t you know who I am? My voice is a little different because of the ink, but I’m still me. Mostly.”

“You just seem like another non-believer.”

“That hurts.”

“Well, it should.” The Prophet responded.

The man dropped The Prophet, and kicked the dust pin across the room. Then he started listening to the tape, lightly kicking at The Prophet when he made any opportunities to get off the floor.

“I’ve listened to this tape before, but it’s a bit different from the rest, isn’t it?” It clearly reminded him of something. “Oh, what about Jack? Do you remember a Jack?”

“No.” So the man mentioned in the tape was a real person too?

“Huh. Well, I bet it was your brother who was closer to him. They were probably fucking each other senseless for how stupid they were.”

The Prophet felt a sting, but he didn’t know why. No words to defend any of these people would leave his mouth.

He felt relief when the man stopped kicking at him and allowed him to rise, but fear when the next thing the man did was pick up The Prophet’s banjo. It was much unlike the other banjos around. Colored different, with nicks and scuffs, and it was _his._

The Prophet stood up and made a grab for the banjo, but the man did a loop around him. He then snapped his fingers to get The Prophet’s attention.

“Do you know where this mark came from?” The man asked, pointing to a small hand print on the banjo.

“I do not.” But he’d always wondered.  
  
“London always told everyone who’d listen that he’d made that mark on your banjo as a child, and you cleared liked having it on there.”

Who was London? The Prophet was sure it was one of the names the man had listed, but who was he past a name?

 _Music, and his Lord_ _,_ The Prophet reminded himself. No point thinking of this London boy, when someone was touching his property. Even somebody he was mildly attracted to. Attracted to like he was The Projectionist. Annoyingly interested.

“Stop it. Stop it. STOP IT.” The Prophet seethed, hoping his tone would get a point across, especially because the man kept stepping around The Prophet’s attempts to get his banjo back.

The man snarled.

“Just remember, goddammit! All this can get better.”

“No!”

“Then you should just give up.” Without any warning, the man snapped the banjo over his knee, and The Prophet _screamed._ “There. Since you didn’t care about your past, I removed this connection for you.”

The Prophet’s lost all sort of intelligible speech, but he didn’t need it to convey his panic and his devastation, and to further cause him pain the man tossed the pieces aside like trash.

“No wonder your family hated you. You don’t even love them enough to want to know who they are.”

The Prophet didn’t respond to that, but he took it to mind. Family? He had one? But if they hated him, what was the point in caring? Maybe he had never cared about anyone of them.

But those names were family, and they matter not at all now.

The Prophet screamed and screeched and cried, and jumped for the man. In his heart, The Prophet knew he’d done this before.

It seemed the man was prepared, and he blocked The Prophet’s first attack, and his next movement, the man ripped Sammy’s mask off his face, revealing his cursed face.

“You’re still a bit you under that mask. Why hide it, even though it’s patterned in ink? You’re still so beautiful.”

The man smacked The Prophet with a broken pipe he’d pulled from somewhere as his next attack.

“Pathetic.” The man muttered, before grabbing The Prophet, and pinning him to the floor. “So pathetic. To think, people have actually loved you.” The man paused, putting his face close enough to The Prophet’s that their noses were touching. “Well, that I can understand. I loved you once. Maybe I still do. But you’re so pathetic.”

The kiss that followed was chaste, and despite being on the lips felt rather like one shared between friends. The next, not so much. The man pulled away after that, grinning.

“Leave you that to think about.”

“Who are you?” The Prophet asked with a whimper, something sick bubbling in. His lord never kissed him like that. Or at all. A small part of him wanted those lips back on his. All other thoughts were suddenly gone.

“Oh, you’ll never find out.”

Despite the dismissing tone, The Prophet took this an invitation to kiss the man again. The man seemed shocked by the action, but kissed back. It didn’t last long and the man pulled away once more, and to add insult, the man grabbed a piece of the banjo, and shoved it through The Prophet throat.

The Prophet gagged, and by the time his panic, confusion, and whatever was mimicking attraction subsided and he was able to remove the intrusion, and truly realize what had just happened, the man was gone.

All he’d left was destruction.

**Author's Note:**

> That was the Butcher Gang clone from To Be Free. He’s been onto a road to darkness since then, and let’s just say he took the path of the angel to get there.
> 
> This follows into the next story, When The Song Goes Dead, already posted.


End file.
